Glad you could drop in Sir!
by iliveinabluevictorianroom
Summary: Erin Wagner is an eccentric, laid-back Atlanta chick working in a local club. Attend the tale of this weird one's descent from a music venue into madness (or rather, 20 Forthlin Road in 1962.) Rated T for the lads' (and my) potty mouths and a fleeting reference to OC's uterus. Review, yadda yadda.


*This is a semi-shoutout/response to **The Starkiller's** story about what we'll probably never see in beatle fanfics, especially #4. Go read it; you'll laugh and probably nod a couple of times.*

My name is Erin Wagner, a California native and an Atlanta resident. I could go on and on about how the Beatles were my life, my one source of inspiration for getting up and writing songs (they're not), and how I had a romantic obsession with that one special one (I don't.)

But I won't.

Instead, I'll simply do my best to relate the story of how I one day tumbled into their historic Forthlin Road home (not historic in the story, _obviously_) and proceeded to give them the shock of their already weird-ass lives.

Before all of this nonsense transpired, however, I considered myself a music obsessor and a womanchild, both mentally and physically-I was still a towhead at age 18, and barely 5' tall. Some people told me I looked otherworldly because of my pale hair, but I told them I was just a sun-bleached freak. Others told me I looked like a rocker because of my heavy Chrissy Hynde bangs, but I said, "no, I'm a mocker", leaving them staring in confusion. Heh. I loved getting away with quotes.

But when I wasn't fielding comments about my appearance, I spent a good deal of my time thinking about the young Beatles as people. Their zany comedy, and the fact that they shared an intrinsic bond without any traces of the modern 'bros before hos' aesthetic that I hated so person I most felt this 'one of the boys' bond with was John. He was my mental soulmate (a prolific writer and smartass), and the ultimate intellectual manchild (see womanchild comment earlier). Plus we were the two laziest and most scattered people on the planet. Right on for right brained people.

Anyway, like I said, I live in Atlanta-the capital of the U.S, in my opinion-and I work at the Drunken Unicorn **(A/N that's a real club, folks :D) **during weekends. One evening as I was leaving the DU, I'd forgotten where I left the keys to my trusty little junked-up Saturn. So hoping to find them where I spent a good chunk of my time during the day watching acts, I shuffled through the back inside door and thumped up the coupla stairs to the control desk, lording behind the smudged glass window. Feeling more smart-assy than usual, I switched on the mike, my voice echoing out onto the empty stage below. "Anyone seen my keys? No? Fine, I'll either look for them myself or walk home. Y'all suck." Turning away, I got onto my knees, moving the rolly chair out of the way to look under the foot space. Nothing but used ciggies and gum wrappers stuck around the edges of the space. I wondered if Chris, our main sound guy was using gum to cure his lingering habit and failing miserably. Besides, he shouldn't flick his smoldering butts onto the thick carpeting. Mentally shrugging, I plucked up a wrapper and let it drop into the center of the space, still ruminating on the Lost Keys' Wherabouts. Then I noticed that the wrapper seemed to _pass through _the floor. I shook my head rapidly. _Damn, _I thought. _After-work starvation must make me trip. _Then I tentatively shoved my hand down through the murky space; my fingers groped air instead of neglected carpet. _DAFUQ? Should I check this out? _Brain: don't answer yes.

So of course I answered directly by sitting up, swinging one leg over and down, and cautiously lowering myself into the rabbit hole. _Chris, if you've been hiding this shit from us... _I won't go into the details, but somehow, after falling several feet and thunking on the soles of my shoes in what felt like a miniature phone booth, I felt my back pressing against a plushy board of some sort, shoulders hunched reflexively and eyes squeezed shut. Then I heard a slow creak, and the board was released from its upright position. I squeaked as I tipped backwards and ended up at a 90 degree angle from the last position, still flat on my back.

Without even opening my eyes, my senses helpfully provided an orienting piece of information.

_We not in Georgia anymore, toto. _

**Ugh, I hated using that last cliched line. But whatevs. **

**So what did you think, peasants? Tell your Czarina by clicking that little button over yonder. ;)**

**Chapter II coming soon.**

**-iliveinabluevictorianroom **


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